Happy Christmas
by bookdiva
Summary: This is an Ilsa and Chance Fic that is set after The Other Side of the Mall while they are drinking and to explain the tension in their relationship in the next promo...reviews are appreciated. I thought that we all needed to see them as a couple. Review!
1. The Kiss

"Happy Christmas Mr. Chance," Isla said. She watched as he took another shot. She'd lost count of how many they'd had while sitting next to the dang tree.

"Merry Christmas Mrs. Pucci," Chance said. She took another shot effectively clouding her mind.

"Really," she pondered, "how long are we going to keep this up? Do you think we've effectively drowned our sorrows?"

"Well, I don't know. Are you still sad?" he asked.

She thought about it for a moment. Was she still sad?

_No, _she realized. _I'm not sad. _

"No," she said aloud, "I'm not. Perhaps it's the alcohol," she joked.

"Or maybe it's healing," he murmured. She wasn't even sure if she'd heard him right.

She wasn't sure if it _was_ the alcohol or maybe it was the man she was with, but either way, she wasn't sad anymore. Sure she missed her husband—she had loved him—but she realized that he was gone and that he wasn't coming back. She had a new life now, and it was high time that she embraced it. Impulsively she leaned toward him; she didn't know why.

Later, when she was alone and trying to rationalize her action, she would tell herself that it was the influence of the alcohol, and she would pretend like she didn't remember it—he would do the same. But in the moment, she wasn't thinking about that. She wasn't thinking about her late husband. She wasn't thinking about the consequences or the repercussions of her actions. She wasn't thinking rationally about anything in that moment except how it would feel to kiss him. She wasn't thinking about anything more than how good he was; that no matter what he'd done in his past, he was good.

She wasn't thinking at all; she was just acting. She acted on the thoughts she wasn't having and she leaned in and kissed him. She was surprised that he didn't pull away, but she couldn't wonder at the reason because she still wasn't thinking. Even if she'd tried, it would have been impossible. In that moment she forgot about anything but him.

It was like nothing she had ever felt before. It was pure and sweet and demanding all at the same time. It was everything she had dreamed about as a girl but had never experienced. Sure she'd loved her husband, but it had been a gradual love. A love grown out of fondness and friendship. But, again, she wasn't thinking about that right now. All she could think of was this good man who was holding her in his arms and kissing her.

After a while she pulled back and looked into his eyes.

"Merry Christmas Mr. Chance," she whispered.

"Happy Christmas Isla," he returned softly.


	2. Ilsa's Predicament

I walked into the elevator feeling happier than I had since Marshall died. I wasn't thinking about my actions; I wasn't thinking about the kiss or the man; I simply wasn't thinking. It felt so good to just let myself just be happy for a change. As the doors closed, I saw his face one more time. It was smiling; I smiled back. I knew we would both treasure this night. Then, the doors shut and my happiness began to fade and I began to think.

_What were you thinking? _I asked myself. _Obviously I wasn't, _I answered myself.

_You just kissed Chance! Your business-partner-ex-assasin-the-man-who-has-killed-numerous-people-without-blinking Chance! You kissed him! What were you thinking?_ My mind refused to be mollified.

When I stepped out of the elevator, the reality of what I had done finally hit me. I had kissed Christopher Chance.

_It was the alcohol, _I told myself. _You were drunk and he is a very attractive man. You were drunk…_

Except I knew that wasn't true. I wasn't drunk then and I'm not drunk now. And if it really was the alcohol, then why was I laying in bed now, fully sober, wanting nothing more than to kiss him again? Why? I sat up.

"Ilsa, this is ridiculous. You do not want to kiss Mr. Chance. That is ludicrous notion. This is not the time—Marshall just died—and this is definitely not the man. I mean, _Chance_? What was I thinking?" _Oh, this _is _ridiculous! Now I'm even talking to myself. _

_You know what you were thinking, _my head taunted me. _You were thinking of how hard he is trying to make up for what he has done. You were thinking about how hard he is on himself. You were thinking of the way he is when he's just laughing, never quite care-free—like he always has to carry the world around on his shoulders. You were thinking that you wanted to help him with that burden. _

With a sigh I pushed back up against the pillows. If only my mind would just leave me alone. I looked over at the clock.

_3:08? How can it be that late…or I mean early? I need to get to sleep. I have an early morning tomorrow…performance reviews…with each team member…including Mr. Chance…alone…damn!_

How am I going to do this? Why, oh why did I kiss him? What could have made me do something so inexcusable?

I think I drifted off around 3:30, but I'm not sure. I was sure, however, that it would be hell to sit with him, go over our professional, business relationship and pretend that the most amazing kiss of my life hadn't happened.


	3. Chance's List

She left, just like he knew she would. And although he knew leaving was the smartest thing for her to do, the less intelligent side of him (meaning almost all of him) wished she wouldn't. For some reason, Ilsa Pucci got under his skin in ways that no other woman ever had. The logical side of his brain told him that she was dangerous—that he should avoid her at all costs—and that part of his brain was getting louder the further away she got. But he still didn't want to. He wanted her to be back with him.

When she disappeared into the elevator, he sank back against the couch and took another shot. It didn't help him erase the memory of that kiss, but it did help him regain his perspective. What the hell could ever come of going after her? He had less than nothing to offer her—she deserved everything that he wasn't.

_But that kiss…no! _

What had he been thinking? That was the problem, he supposed. He _hadn't _been thinking. Damn it, when she'd leaned toward him, all he could think about was kissing her.

_Damn her, damn her kisses, damn the scotch that clouded her brain, _he thought. _And mine, for that matter. _

It didn't help matters that he knew it would never happen again. He knew she wouldn't bring it up—he would do the same, and they would never get to discuss what had happened. She would tell herself that her mind had been clouded by the alcohol's influence—so would he.

But he would think about it. And he would want to talk about it. He knew that his mind was clear, and the memory of her kiss would be burned into his mind forever.

To keep his mind off the memory of her kiss, he began to make a list of all the reasons he wasn't good enough for her. He took another shot of scotch, and he was just drunk enough to think writing them all down was a good idea.

On a the paper, he wrote,

_Reasons why I am not good enough for Ilsa Pucci:_

_I have enemies who will get to me at any cost. Therefore…_

_Anyone close to me is at risk._

_I have killed 1,389 people. _

_I put my life at risk on a daily basis._

_I don't have a name._

_I am unredeemable._

_I have nightmares._

_I still wake up and grab the gun and try to shoot someone._

_I have nothing to offer her. (Obviously)_

_No matter how hard I try to be, I am not a good man._

Looking down at the paper in his hands, he felt two things: 1) mostly he hated himself, the choices he'd made, and the person he'd become, and how they all made it impossible for him to be with her. And 2) he felt a little relieved, because he had the evidence on the paper, right in front of his face, and he could now protect her from himself—no matter the personal cost. He couldn't live in a fantasy world—a world where he wasn't himself and he could be enough for her—anymore. He would protect her from himself. And starting right now, he would begin to protect himself—from her. Because it just wouldn't do to fall in love with a woman he could never have.

Sighing, he went upstairs alone and wondered what he was going to do about tomorrow. He tossed and turned over it all night, and he still didn't have an answer. That was what led him to the bar the next morning. And that was what led him to dive back into the mess that was Maria. Because he knew she expected him to act as if the kiss hadn't happened. And he knew that he had to do it—for her. But damn it if he couldn't help but grin every time he was with her. Even if she was so mad that she was threatening their partnership. If never seeing her again was what it took to protect her, then he would learn to do it.


End file.
